XIX. PESTUM. They stand between the mountains and the sea; | Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!! The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, Points to the work of magic and moves on. Time was they stood along the crowded street, Temples of Gods! and on their ample steps What various habits, various tongues beset The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice! Time was perhaps the third was sought for Justice; And here the accuser stood, and there the accused; And here the judges sate, and heard, and judged. All silent now!-as in the ages past, Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. How many centuries did the sun go round From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, While, by some spell render'd invisible, Or, if approach'd, approach'd by him alone Who saw as though he saw not, they remain'd As in the darkness of a sepulchre, Waiting the appointed time! All, all within Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, And taken to herself what man renounced; No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, But with thick ivy hung or branching fern; Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! From my youth upward have I longed to tread This classic ground-And am I here at last? Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And catching, as through some majestic grove, Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, Towns like the living rock from which they grew ? A cloudy region, black and desolate, Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. The air is sweet with violets, running wild (171) 'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals; Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost (172) (Turning to thee, divine Philosophy, Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul) Sail'd slowly by, two thousand years ago, For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds Blew from the Pæstan gardens, slack'd her course. On as he moved along the level shore, Well might he dream of Glory!-Now, coil'd up, Of earth and air its only floor and covering, The temples of PESTUM are three in number; and have survived, nearly nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concerning them; but they must have existed now between two and three thousand years. * Spartacus. See Plutarch in the Life of Crassus, Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk Seen at his setting, and a flood of light Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, (Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, Across the innumerable columns flung) In such an hour he came, who saw and told, Led by the mighty Genius of the Place. Walls of some capital city first appear'd, Half razed, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn; -And what within them? what but in the midst These Three in more than their original grandeur, And, round about, no stone upon another? As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, And, turning, left them to the elements. "T is said a stranger in the days of old (Some say a Dorian, some a Sybarite; But distant things are ever lost in clouds), 'T is said a stranger came, and, with his plough, Traced out the site; and Posidonia rose, (173) Severely great, Neptune the tutelar God; A Homer's language murmuring in her streets, And in her haven many a mast from Tyre. Then came another, an unbidden guest. He knock'd and enter'd with a train in arms; And all was changed, her very name and language! The Tyrian merchant, shipping at his door Ivory and gold, and silk, and frankincense, Sail'd as before, but, sailing, cried For Pæstum !»> And now a Virgil, now an Ovid sung Pæstum's twice-blowing roses; while, within, Parents and children mourn'd-and, every year, ('T was on the day of some old festival) Met to give way to tears, and once again, Talk in the ancient tongue of things gone by. 2 At length an Arab climb'd the battlements, Slaying the sleepers in the dead of night; And from all eyes the glorious vision fled! Leaving a place lonely and dangerous, Where whom the robber spares, a deadlier foe3 Strikes at unseen-and at a time when joy Opens the heart, when summer-skies are blue, And the clear air is soft and delicate;' For then the demon works-then with that air The thoughtless wretch drinks in a subtle poison Lulling to sleep; and, when he sleeps, he dies. XX. MONTE CASSINO. XXI. THE HARPER. What hangs behind that curtain? (174). Wouldst Ir was a Harper, wandering with his harp, thou learn? If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'T is by some As though the day were come, were come and past, Once-on a Christmas-eve-ere yet the roof Rung with the hymn of the Nativity, There came a stranger to the convent-gate, And ask'd admittance; ever and anon, As if he sought what most he fear'd to find, Looking behind him. When within the walls, These walls so sacred and inviolable, Still did he look behind him; oft and long, With haggard eye and curling, quivering lip, Catching at vacancy. Between the fits, For here, 't is said, he linger'd while he lived, He would discourse and with a mastery, A charm by none resisted, none explain'd, Unfelt before; but when his cheek grew pale, All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employed, He would break off, and start as if he caught A glimpse of something that would not be gone; And turn and gaze, and shrink into himself, As though the Fiend was there, and, face to face, Scowl'd o'er his shoulder. Most devout he was; He learnt in Florence; with a master's hand, At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell With what he could not fly from, none can say, Michael Angelo. His only treasure; a majestic man, By time and grief ennobled, not subdued; But the child They were bound, he said, Their harp-it had a voice oracular, And in the desert, in the crowded street, Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they went, The grandsire, step by step, led by the child; And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day; Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind, Brightening a path already full of sunshine. XXII. THE FELUCA. DAY glimmer'd; and beyond the precipice (Which my mule follow'd as in love with fear, Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining Soon a boatman's shout Ruftling with many an oar the crystalline sea, (179) Parent and child! How oft where now we rode (180) Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains, the oar, A voice in anger cried, «Use all your strength!» But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men, Creatures so frail, so soon, alas! to die, Should have the power, the will to make this world A dismal prison-house, and life itself, Life in its prime, a burden and a curse To him who never wrong'd them! Who that breathes As from a tale monstrous, incredible? A consciousness how soon we shall be gone, At length the day departed, and the moon Rose like another sun, illumining Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories, Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower, Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone Reveals below, nor often-scenes that fled As at the waving of a wizard's wand, And left behind them, as their parting gift, A thousand nameless odours. All was still; And now the nightingale her song pour'd forth In such a torrent of heart-felt delight, So fast it flow'd, her tongue so voluble, As if she thought her hearers would be gone Thy pharos, Genoa, first display'd itself, Among its golden groves and fruits of gold, The windows blazing. But we now approach'd XXIII. GENOA. THIS house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived; (181) Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse (182) He left it for a better; and 't is now A house of trade, (183) the meanest merchandise Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is, Genoa. 'T is still the noblest dwelling-even in Genoa! And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last, Thou hadst done well; for there is that without, That in the wall, which monarchs could not give, Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud, It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer. "T is in the heart of Genoa (he who comes, Thy children, for they hail'd thee as their sire; Thou art now Thine was a glorious course; but couldst thou there, Clad in thy cere-cloth-in that silent vault, Where thou art gather'd to thy ancestorsOpen thy secret heart and tell us all, Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess, A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours Were pass'd before these sacred walls were left, Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected, (184) And and power pomp drew envy, stirring up The ambitious man, that in a perilous hour Fell from the plank. (185) XXIV. A FAREWELL. 2 AND now farewell to Italy-perhaps Many a courtesy, Gentle or rude, Where, when the south-wind blows, and clouds on clouds Gather and fall, the peasant freights his bark, Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe, But now a long farewell! Oft, while I live, If once again in England, once again In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on, With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks, While the wind blusters and the pelting rain Clatters without, shall I recall to mind The scenes, occurrences, I met with here, And wander in Elysium; many a note Of wildest melody, magician-like, Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn, Along the mountain-side, when all is still, Pours forth at folding-time; and many a chant, Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows From the full choir, when richest harmonies Break the deep silence of thy glens, La Cava; To him who lingers there with listening ear, Now lost and now descending as from Heaven! The temples of Pæstum. The Po. NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. Note 1, page 40, col. 2. As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived. J'arrive essoufflé, tout en nage; le cœur me bat, je vois de loin les soldats à leur poste; j'accours, je crie d'une voix étouffee. Il étoit trop tard.»-See Les Confessions, L. 1. The street, in which he was born, is called Rue Rousseau. Note 2, page 40, col. 2. He sate him down and wept-wept till the morning. ⚫ Lines of eleven syllables occur almost in every page of Milton; but though they are not unpleasing, they ought not to be admitted into heroic poetry; since the narrow limits of our language allow us no other distinction of epic and tragic measures.—JOHNSON. It is remarkable that he used them most at last. In the Paradise Regained they occur oftener than in the Paradise Lost in the proportion of ten to one; and let it be remembered that they supply us with another close, another cadence; that they add, as it were, a string to the instrument; and, by enabling the Poet to relax at pleasure, to rise and fall with his subject, contribute what is most wanted, compass, variety. Shakspeare seems to have delighted in them, and in some of his soliloquies has used them four and five times in succession; an example I have not followed in mine. As in the following instance, where the subject is solemn beyond all others. To be, or not to be, that is the question: They come nearest to the flow of an unstudied eloquence, and should therefore be used in the drama; but why exclusively? Horace, as we learn from himself, admitted the Musa Pedestris in his happiest hours, in those when he was most at his ease; and we cannot regret her visits. To her we are indebted for more than half he has left us; nor was she ever at his elbow in greater dishabille, than when he wrote the celebrated Journey to Brundusium. Note 3, page 41, col. 1. like him of old. The Abbot of Clairvaux. To admire or despise St Bernard as he ought,» says Gibbon, the reader, like myself, should have before the windows of his library that incomparable landskip.> Note 4, page 41, col. 1. That winds beside the mirror of all beauty. There is no describing in words; but the following lines were written on the spot, and may serve perhaps to recall to some of my readers what they have seen in this enchanting country. I love to watch in silence till the Sun Sets; and Mont Blanc, array'd in crimson and gold, Note 5, page 41, col. 2. Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me. Berri, so remarkable for his sagacity, was dead. His skin is stuffed, and is preserved in the Museum of Berne. Note 6, page 42, col. 1. But the Bise blew cold. Note 7, page 42, col. 1. St Bruno's once The Grande Chartreuse. It was indebted for its foundation to a miracle; as every guest may learn there from a little book that lies on the table in his cell, the cell allotted to him by the fathers. In this year the canon died, and, as all believed, in the odour of sanctity: for who in his life had been so holy, in his death so happy? But false are the the hour of his funeral had arrived, when the mourners For when judgments of men; as the event showeth. had entered the church, the bearers set down the bier, voice was lifted up in the Miserere, sudevery denly and as none knew how, the lights were extinguished, the anthem stopt! A darkness succeeded, a silence as of the grave; and these words came in sorrowful accents from the lips of the dead. summoned before a Just God! --- A Just God judgeth me! I am condemned by a Just God!» and . I am In the church, says the legend, there stood a young man with his hands clasped in prayer, who from that time resolved to withdraw into the desert. It was he whom we now invoke as St Bruno.>> M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous. L'an 1790, le nommé Christian Boren, propriétaire de l'auberge du Grindelwald, eut le malheur de se jeter dans une fente du glacier, en le traversant avec un troupeau de moutons qu'il ramenoit des pâturages de Bâniseck. Heureusement qu'il tomba dans le voisinage du grand torrent qui coule dans l'intérieur, il en suivit le lit par-dessous les voûtes de glace, et arriva au pied du glacier avec un bras cassé. Cet homme est actuellement encore en vie.» Manuel du Voyageur. Art. Grindelwald. Note 13, page 43, col. 2. ――a wondrous monument. on the Swiss side of St Gothard. The north-east wind. This description was written such a bridge. The most celebrated in this country is in June, 1816. |